Helvetia!

The night before a race never fails to astound me. I put my bags together, then take it all out and put it back one more time, just to make sure I have everything. Walking down my stairs to pull one last thing out of my car, I feel my shoulders relax and fall back, my legs work their muscles just to be sure they are there. My mind clears and there is just the road in front of me.

I have a hard job. It is one I chose and fought for, and I make NO pretense that it is by any means the hardest job of the group. Beyond that, hard is something we all face. Everyone’s job is hard. Everyone has bad days. This week I cried 5 times. Once was because we are going to the union on my boss, once because the State still wants to cut my salary by 20% and we will be without a contract as of July 1st. Once was because a parent called me a bitch, once because a grandparent—the foster mom to her four month old granddaughter—thanked me for my hard work. And once was for a kid we lost. Sometimes I find myself brought to me knees without realizing I am there. Yet this is not something I want to walk away from. For all the fights and weights, the endless uphill, there is a great—an immense and joyous—amount of success, laughter, and love. Still I am humbled tonight, a little sore at heart, perhaps a little worse for the wear. Why am I telling you this? Not, as you may think, to complain—and I hope it doesn’t come off that way. Not to gain support. But so that you will understand my full weight when I say that tonight, on the eve of a race I have worked so hard to get to, when I say that tonight, the rest is unimportant.

So before I start, to my Chicks—with extra great love for the Loping Fanatic and the Doughnut Fiend, for the Warrior and her Buddy, for the Inspirations One and Two—thank you for tonight. Whether you know it or not, whether we have ever met in person, you are part of the reason that I can sit here tonight and forget my week. With your help I am inching towards tomorrow, towards the start line and the finish line, and while I am not fast, or graceful, I can do this. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart—and what’s more, from the soles of my feet!

It hurt. This one hurt, guys, like hell, more than any half has since my first. We started the morning with doughnuts and hugs, a buoying of spirits, a trundle to the start line. The DM, LF, and I stick together out of the gate and for the hours toe come. Honestly I don’t remember that much. I remember that the chafing started around mile 3 and that the mile markers came much faster then they usually do. We had great fun! We talked about chafing and sports bras and toenail losses and kids and jobs and changes ahead. We talked about Autumn Leaves and how we have no problem being the “runner version of crazy” versus any other kind of crazy. And wow, was it beautiful out there, with overhanging trees and horses, old houses and fields of flowers just waiting to bloom. It was a fantastic course with a crazy impressive amount of aid stations. Man. Did we have fun!!! We walked the uphills and ran the downs, airplaned and windmilled and on one memorable occasion, pranced like horses and loped like llamas. It was absolutely the most fun I’ve had during a half, ever ever ever. And holy sh*t, did it hurt. My blisters picked up steam about mile 6 and throbbed until the shoes came off at the end, on the insides of my heels, the big toes, the pads. I was allergic and wheezy so each breath burned. Uphill, downhill, the calves and quads and abs, they hurt. The Doughnut Maniac and the Loping Fanatic checked in with me periodically, at times pacing ahead, at times flocking each side, making sure I didn’t forget that I could do this. With them I made it to the gravel half mile, which hurt all of us. Damn gravel. I turned to the LF as we neared the road. “Ok, when you pass the DM, tell her to go ahead too.” She peered at me. “Really?” “Um, sure”. She grins, the joy I have come to treasure during our runs and says “nope. We have it all worked out.” We get to mile 11 and she takes off. The DM says “do you have headphones?” “Yup.” “Put em on. Stay by my shoulder, don’t stop, zone out. Follow my lead.” “Yup.” We put our headphones on and I pick up the walk to a slow shuffle, partly to stay at her shoulder and partly to relive the pressure off my blisters. “Want me to slow down?” “No, please don’t, I like this pace.” The sun gets hotter and we reach the overpass. Halfway to 12 and we push up the hill to find the smokin’ hot ODOT guys waiting to cheer us on. Back down the other side to the aid station and she reminds me to get what I need but just keep moving. So I do. On the other side of the aid station we pick up to a shuffle again and suddenly we are mile 12. “Here we go!” The last mile is by far the hardest. Holy crap. My calves cramp and my face flushes, and I have to walk. Yet there is no defeat. About .2 miles out I catch up to the Doughnut Maniac and she matches to the 13, then says “GO!” And I do, take off sprinting like the world is on fire and here it is, my finish. I stumble into the waiting arms of the Loping Fanatic. We take pictures of her, the DM, and me, we suck down water and grab smoothies and head up to find the LF’s mother in law with our bags and my sign and the burgers. Somewhere between collapsing on the lawn with my food and taking off the shoes to find bloody socks, between taking endless pictures with that Half Fanatic sign and my girls, between beginnings and endings, I remember that I finished. That we finished. Then I remember that more importantly, I started. It hurt. It was hilarious, and fun, and silly, and gorgeous. I had a fantastic time with my partners in lunacy. We started, and we finished, and in between we lived a thousand little lifetimes, and you know what? Today, nothing else matters.